Sergei ca’Rudka
SERGEI FOUND IT DIFFICULT to believe all that Karl
and Varina told him. Sergei had seen the smoke of the fires in
Nessantico and the wind had brought its scent to them and he knew
that the city suffered, but this: Nessantico conquered, much of it
in ruins . . .
He had not expected
this.
There was too much he
had not expected. Sergei was feeling very old and frail
indeed.
“Archigos
ca’Cellibrecca is here?” Karl said, and
Sergei nodded in acknowledgment. Karl’s face was hard and set, his
voice clipped and grim. “Then take me to him, Sergei. Let that be
the payment for releasing you from the Bastida. Just take me to him
and walk away. You don’t need to be involved in the
rest.”
“It’s not that
simple, Karl,” he said.
“Actually, it
is that simple,” Karl retorted. “The
man killed Ana, and I want justice for her murder.”
“I can’t give you
that,” Sergei told them. “Not here, and not now. But I can tell you
that Hïrzg Jan has no great affection for the man. I think that the
same can be said of A’Hïrzg Allesandra—at least for the moment.
Karl, let me deal with this. Please.” Sergei looked at Varina for
support; she leaned close to Karl.
“Listen to him,” she
said. “Or listen to Ana—what would she tell you?”
The trio were in
Sergei’s tent in the Firenzcian encampment, where the two had been
brought by the first soldiers they’d encountered. Sergei had been
amazed and pleased to see the two Numetodo; after their separation,
he’d been afraid that they’d been caught and imprisoned, or worse.
If their tale had caused him distress, it was the thought of
Nessantico laying ruined that was too painful to
imagine.
He also knew that the
Hïrzg and A’Hïrzg, at the very least, would also have been informed
of their arrival; he was somewhat surprised he hadn’t yet heard
from either of them. And when Archigos Semini learned that the
Ambassador of the Numetodo was in the encampment . . . He needed to
prepare against that. Allesandra and Jan were another issue; he
wasn’t quite certain how they would respond. He’d do his best to
protect Karl and Varina, but . . .
“Karl,” he said. “I
promise you this: when the time comes, I will help you with
ca’Cellibrecca. The man is a blight and an insult to the robes
Archigos Ana wore. We both agree on that. When the time comes, I
will gladly help you make his death as painful as you like.” Sergei
almost smiled, thinking of Semini ensconced in the Bastida. Yes,
that would be delightful. That would be . . .
enjoyable.
Varina’s eyes widened
somewhat at the statement, but Karl, tight-lipped, nodded. There
was a discreet clearing of a throat at the tent flap a moment
later. “Enter,” Sergei said, and the flap opened to reveal one of
the Hïrzg’s pages. “Regent, Hïrzg Jan requests that you bring your
two guests—” the boy’s eyes flicked across to Karl and Varina, “—to
his tent. He’s set a supper for them and wishes to hear what they
have to say.”
“Tell the Hïrzg that
we’ll be there directly,” Sergei told the page, who bowed deeply
and withdrew. “You’ve nothing to fear from Hïrzg Jan,” he told the
two. He hoped that was the truth. “I rather like the young man. In
some ways, he reminds me of myself. . . .”
“Archigos Semini will
counsel me that the Numetodo are heretics and liars, and dangerous
to me physically as well as to my eternal soul,” Hïrzg Jan
said.
“Archigos Semini is a
liar and a fool, and an ass besides,” Sergei answered. “If I may be
forgiven my bluntness, Hïrzg.”
Jan grinned. “Sit,”
he said to Karl and Varina, gesturing to the table where bread and
cheese and a pot of meat stew sat. Plates of dull pewter were set
before them. “Enjoy the little comforts we have here in the field,
since I can’t give you the full hospitality of Firenzcia.” When
they hesitated, Jan’s smile broadened. “I assure you that I share
the opinion of the Regent when it comes to Archigos
Semini.”
Varina managed a
smile; Karl still looked uncertain. “And what is the Hïrzg’s
opinion of the Numetodo?” he asked.
“One of the things
that Regent ca’Rudka has taught me is that I should judge people
not by what they are, but by who they are. I have no opinion on the
Numetodo yet—until now, I’ve never met one.” Jan gestured at their
seats again. “Please . . .”
Sergei bowed. A
moment later Karl did the same, and the three of them took their
seats across from Jan. “Will the A’Hïrzg be joining us?” Sergei
asked.
Jan’s smile vanished
at that. “No,” he said, the single word nearly bitten off. Sergei
waited, expecting more explanation; none came. He wondered what had
happened between matarh and son—he’d had no more than a glimpse of
Allesandra for a day and half now. Even while the army crawled at a
maddeningly slow pace closer to Nessantico’s walls, Allesandra had
kept to a covered carriage, without either her son or the Archigos
as company.
But he wasn’t going
to ask the Hïrzg to explain. Jan was looking instead to Karl and
Varina. “I would like to know your story, from your own mouths,” he
said.
For the next turn of
the glass, that is what they did, with Jan leading the two with
occasional questions. Sergei listened for the most part—inwardly
amused at some of the explanation that Karl left out from the tale.
When Karl described the black sand, and how it had been used by the
Westlanders in their assault on the city, and how the makings of
more of it were in the city, Jan leaned forward.
“You say that this
black sand is the key to the Westlanders’ success? This is the same
magic we’ve heard of them using in the Hellins?”
“It’s not
magic, Hïrzg,” Karl said. “That’s the
interesting thing. It’s alchemy. Varina has some idea—from what
Talis has said and from the samples I brought back from Uly’s
rooms—of how to mix the black sand. I’ve seen—we’ve all seen—the
terrible things it can do.” A dark shadow seemed to pass over
Karl’s face with that, and Sergei knew what he was recalling: Ana’s
assassination. It was a horror that would never be erased from
either of their minds. “They set the city afire with it; they
killed hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Hïrzg, with this black sand, no
army needs war-téni or their spells. No armor can withstand it, no
number of swords can prevail against it.”
“And you know where
the cache of this black sand is?”
Karl nodded. “I do.
So does Varina. We can take you there, Hïrzg. But the Westlanders
will be after it also. Talis . . . I suspect that he may be already
leading them to it. They may already
have it.”
“Hïrzg,” Sergei
interrupted. “I understand why you’ve let your army idle here. I
might have made the same decision, if I were you—even though my
heart breaks to see the city burning and to hear that the
Westlanders are trampling in the ruins of the places I loved most
of all in this world.” He rubbed at his false nose, saw Jan staring
at the motion, and dropped his hand. “But—if you’re willing to
listen to my counsel at all—I would tell you that the time to wait
has passed. I’ve witnessed the effects of this black sand, too. If
the Westlanders have time to create more of it, then it’s your own
soldiers who will pay the price for hesitation. Hïrzg, listen to
what my friends are telling you. The Garde Civile of Nessantico has
been defeated. That battle’s over. We must strike now—not at
Nessantico, but at those who defeated her: before they come to
Firenzcia.”
Sergei thought that
his plea would have no effect. Jan was looking away, his gaze
searching the firelit canvas above him as if an answer were written
there in smoke. The young man sighed once. Then he clapped his
hands and a page entered.
“Call the
starkkapitän to come here,” he said to the boy. “There are
immediate preparations I need him to make. Hurry!”